Chercher La Mort
by darkbird36
Summary: Set after 'Simon Said'. Still reeling from recent events, Sam and Dean travel to Penoke, Washington to clean up after an aquaintance. Things go badly, in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Chercher la Mort

SUMMARY: Set after 'Simon Said'. Still reeling from recent events, Sam and Dean travel to Penoke, Washington to clean up after an aquaintance. Things go badly, in more ways than one.

AUTHOR: Darkbird36

RATING/WARNINGS: M, for distrubing imagry, violence, and language. SEASON 2 SPOILERS UP TO SIMON SAID, so don't read unless you want to be spoiled. Also, very minor character death (not Sam or Dean). I don't think anyone will be too broken up about it. :)

A/N: I've been wanting to address the way Dean's been treating Sam this season (the punch, the little jabs and undermining comments, the distance, ect) and then the idea for a baddie came to me and this fic sort of coalesced. I'm hoping to post again next week. In the meantime, I appreciate any feedback you feel like giving. It keeps me goin'. :)

* * *

Whitney Birch knew that today was going to be a good day. He'd hit every traffic light the right way going to work, green all the way. As a result, he had gotten to the office early enough to snag one of the Boston crème donuts that always seemed to be gone by the time he arrived. The boss had chosen his pitch for the new company TV ad, going so far as to openly compliment him during the meeting. The look on Mark Jenkin's face alone was absolutely priceless.

Now, on his way home to his gorgeous wife, Whitney knew things were looking up for him. Celia had promised him pork chops for dinner, sex for dessert, and he was sure he had broken several traffic laws getting home after work.

Luckily, his good fortune seemed to be holding. No one pulled him over, and in record time he was unlocking the front door.

"Celia," he called cheerfully, stepping inside and setting his briefcase by the door. There was no response. Whitney inhaled deeply, expecting the herby, enticing scent of Celia's pork chops. Instead, he smelled a sharp, coppery tang, more like… raw meat than anything else.

_Must be getting a late start on dinner,_ he thought wryly. _Wonder if that means I get an early start on dessert?_

"Baby, I'm home," he called again, loosening his tie as he walked toward the kitchen.

Still no answer, and now he was inexplicably nervous.

"Celia?"

His foot slipped a little in the entryway to the kitchen, and he paused, pulling his foot back and peering at the floor. A scarlet smear stretched from under his sole, dark against the white tile, and Whitney's heart seized in sudden panic and foreboding.

He staggered into the kitchen, not wanting to see but unable to resist.

Celia…

_Oh, his beautiful, beautiful girl…_

His wife was pinned to the kitchen wall, her own chef's knife protruding grotesquely from her throat. Her eyes and mouth were open, staring at Whitney, dried blood staining her chin and her chest. Her blouse had been torn open, her skirt hiked up.

Whitney tried to scream, tried to say her name, but all that came out was a whimper.

Today was supposed to be good day.

* * *

The familiar rumble of the Impala vibrated through Sam's bones, and he found a sort of comfort in it. God knew there was precious little of _that_ going around these days – the interior was thick with barely-suppressed discomfort and irritation, Dean having shut him out again as soon as they left the Roadhouse. It was becoming routine for them these days – Dean closing him off, pushing him away, and Sam, pushing back until his brother snapped, both retreating to strained silence. 

Sam didn't know how they got this way, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to break the pattern they had settled into. He was barely holding it together as it was – it was too much at once. Their Dad's death, Dean's near-death. The other children chosen by the demon, and the fear of becoming a killer. The fear that he was _already_ a killer, in his own right. And worst of all, Dean was falling apart before him, and yet out of reach.

He knew his brother well enough to expect a certain level of macho posturing and denial before he would break down and let Sam in. But this… this was different. Sam had nearly begged him to open up, had pleadingly told him, outright: "I'm not okay", and Dean had remained unmoved, cold. Worse, he seemed to be lashing out at Sam. When Dean had punched him during the Gordon job, he hadn't pulled his punch at all. Dean had never tried to actually _hurt_ him before. But now…

Sam was beginning to form a terrible, sickening theory – and, as everything bad in their lives seemed to do, it all came back to him. Dean was hiding something. Something big. Something bad. And Sam knew it was about him – about the demon.

"I think we should get some food," Sam ventured, desperate to break the heavy silence that could be felt even under the heavy bass of Metalica. "Maybe stop at a diner?"

Dean shot him a quick look, his expression slightly exasperated – as though Sam were whining like a child instead of making a polite request.

"Fine," he said evenly, turning his attention back to the road. "Whatever."

Sam wanted to say something else, goad his brother into talking again, but there didn't seem to be anything left to say.

Words felt hollow.

_Sam_ felt hollow.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a small, greasy diner, trying to avoid eye contact while eating two equally messy burgers. Dean was pretending to read the paper, spread out on the table before him, and Sam was contemplating rather or not his brother hated him. 

His mind went unerringly to the memory of Dean under Andy's control.

_'Cause you're all part of something terrible…_

The more he learned about his connection to the demon, the more afraid he became. The more Dean learned, the more distant he became. Whatever was going on here was bad, and they could both sense it.

…_I hope to hell that he's wrong, but I'm starting to get a little scared that he might be right._

"Holy fucking Christ," Dean said sharply, causing Sam to jump and the older couple in the booth behind him to turn disapprovingly. Sam lifted an eyebrow questioningly, and Dean thumped the paper with two fingers.

"Double homicide in Washington."

"And?"

"Walter Gordon was one of the victims."

Sam blinked in surprise, leaning back and considering. He'd detested the man, but still… he was one of them, a hunter, and it hit a little close to home.

"What happened? Was it a job?"

"Looks that way. Says here, 'Whitney Birch, of Penoke, Washington, and an unidentified black male were found dead Tuesday morning in the Penoke Westinghouse Paper Mill. Birch, 38, appears to have been tortured before being stabbed to death with a ceremonial knife, found at the scene. The unidentified man, approximately 30 years of age, was beaten before being impaled on machinery in the mill. Police have yet to determine the second victim's identity, or why he was with Birch at the mill, but have discovered an unusual amount of odd weaponry in the deceased's vehicle. Birch had briefly been a suspect in his wife Celia's rape and murder in August, but was cleared of all charges due to DNA evidence. At this time, there do not appear to be any suspects.'"

Dean spun the paper around and slid it towards Sam, tapping a police sketch of the unidentified victim. Sam lifted the paper and stared intently at the drawing. It was Gordon, alright. Had there been any doubt, the mention of 'odd weaponry' would have been enough to dispel it.

"Shit," Sam said, unsure what his reaction should be. Dean had been so unpredictable lately – Sam walked into every conversation blind and unsure.

"We need to go to Washington," Dean said, swallowing the last of his burger and signaling the waitress for the check. He clearly meant _now_.

"What? Wait –"

"Sam, something took out a seasoned hunter and an innocent victim. If Gordon kicked it, he obviously didn't get the fucker. We gotta go kill it."

"Aren't you rushing into this a little fast," Sam asked, watching his brother count out enough cash to cover the meal and tip.

"Why, you have somewhere to be, Sam? Hot date? Geek convention?"

Dean stood, fished his keys from his pocket, and moved toward the door without waiting for a reply, and Sam knew he had to hustle or get left behind.

Dean smelled blood, and lately that seemed to be the one thing that made him happy. It was a thought that scared Sam more than the idea of his brother hating him, more than the idea of becoming a monster.

Sam wouldn't be able to stop him now that he was on the hunt. Didn't even want to think about what would happen if he tried.

* * *

Dean was obscenely grateful that Sam had stopped trying to talk to him. It had been a long drive to Washington, and Dean didn't think he could have handled the twelve hour car ride with little brother breathing down his neck. 

The only word to describe how he felt was _raw_. Everything hurt – the whole fucking world one big reminder of his failures as a son and as a brother. Every day, a day without half of his family.

Dean was a soldier and a soldier's son – raised to react to pain with violence and retribution. Rage boiled in his gut in a constant heat, a simmering fire that ached for fuel. And now he had a target for it. Find this thing in Washington, tear it apart and send the fucker back to hell.

God, he hoped that whatever it was could bleed.

But then Sam would give him that _look_, like he did when Dean had decapitated the vampire. His face like a physical blow of fear, sadness, and disgust. It made Dean want to hit him, sometimes, before he remembered that it was _Sam_. Sometimes, even that wasn't enough. For the first time in his life, Dean had hit Sam with the intention of hurting him. He'd hit Sam with enough force to make him stagger, and his brother could take one hell of a punch.

That one, he'd felt bad for.

But it was hard not to be angry with Sam. Dean had no one left to be angry at. And his Dad… if he'd been alive, Dean would have punched _him_. But as it was, his mind could not allow him to be angry with John. In death, a deeply flawed father had become a sort of personal saint to both boys. Dean couldn't help but want to hate Sam for it. He had no right. _He_ was the one who had always been loyal, always followed directions. The good son. The good soldier. And yet, John had left _him_ with the terrible secret of Sam's connection to the demon, to be his burden alone.

It was so unjust.

Sam had never trusted John the way he had. Sam couldn't understand what losing him had done to Dean. And his little brother's constant demand to talk, to share, was too much.

Sam thought he was saving Dean from drowning, but he was pushing him under instead.

The brother in question was asleep in the passenger seat, long frame tucked awkwardly up against the door. His posture looked slightly defeated even in sleep, and Dean felt a surge of mingled fear and anger. Sam was all he had left, his whole life dependant on one person – a person who had come close to dying more times than he could count. He was unaccountably angry at Sam for making him vulnerable to more grief. He couldn't take any more. Couldn't take what he had already.

Pulling into the motel parking lot, Dean stopped more abruptly than necessary, ignoring the surprised grunt from Sam as his head bounced off the window. Tossing the keys at his slightly disoriented brother, Dean opened the door and moved stiffly out of the car.

"I'm going to check us in. Get our shit together, will you?"

Sam nodded and yawned, but Dean was already halfway to the office. Inside, he halfheartedly flirted with the girl behind the counter before checking them into two adjacent rooms, rather than their usual single room, double bed arrangement.

Sam would undoubtedly be upset – would read too much into it.

Dean couldn't find the energy to care.

Back outside, he snatched his bag and the Impala's keys from Sam, tossing him one of the room keys.

"You're in 7B, I'm in 8B," he said blankly.

The expected look of bewildered hurt flitted briefly across Sam's face, but was quickly supplanted by a carefully schooled mask of indifference.

Dean grunted a goodnight and forced himself to walk casually to his room, step inside, and close the door behind him before he let himself relax. Dropping his bag just inside the door, he slumped on the dingy bed with his head in his hands.

He stayed that way almost an hour.

Just until the shaking stopped.

* * *

2 am and he was still awake. There were bugs crawling in his veins, making him restless and edgy. 

Giving up on sleep, Dean got up, strapped on his boots, and left his room as quietly as he could. He could get in a little pre-dawn reconnaissance before Sam realized he had gone, scope out the lay of the land and get a head's up on the job. If he were being honest with himself, he almost hoped he would encounter the thing so he could kill it on his own.

The night air was cool and damp, and Dean shrugged deeper into his leather jacket, crunching softly across the gravel parking lot. He was nearly to his car when a soft, accusatory voice stopped him.

"Where the hell are you going, Dean?"

_Shit._

"None a' you're damn business, Sam."

"You're slinking off in the night, armed, alone. Don't give me that shit."

Sam moved toward him, coming out of the shadow of the motel building.

"You're going on a hunt, aren't you?"

"And if I am?"

Dean couldn't help the challenging tone in his voice, and he saw Sam bristle.

"I can't believe you're doing this," Sam protested with a twinge of hysteria. "This has gotta stop, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean ground out, the need to hurt something pounding through his veins, "You're right. You've gotta stop breathing down my neck like some sort of hormonal freak."

Sam flinched at the use of the word 'freak'.

"Fuck you, Dean."

And just like that, Dean had a new target.

* * *

Sam had tossed restlessly for a few hours before resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight. His brain wouldn't shut the hell up, torturing him with his failures as a son and a brother, combing through all his recent interactions with Dean for some sign that his brother still cared. 

Feeling claustrophobic in his room, he had stepped outside for some air, leaning against the building and breathing in the damp, earthy smell around him.

He had been ready to go inside and do some research when Dean's door snicked open softly and his brother slipped outside.

_What the hell?_

Dean was fully dressed, boots and all. Sam caught the glint of a handgun under his jacket, and knew with sudden certainty what his brother was up to.

_You stupid, selfish, arrogant son of a bitch,_ Sam thought venomously. Biting down on the insult, he called softly to his brother instead.

"Where the hell are you going, Dean?"

Dean turned slowly, a smug, defensive look on his face.

"None a' you're damn business, Sam."

Anger and disbelief churned in his chest.

"You're slinking off in the night, armed, alone. Don't give me that shit," he said lowly.

Moving away from the building, he unconsciously advanced on his brother.

"You're going on a hunt, aren't you?"

"And if I am?"

Sam's hands clenched and he took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. Couldn't Dean see what he was doing to him?

"I can't believe you're doing this. This has gotta stop, Dean."

"Yeah. You're right. You've gotta stop breathing down my neck like some sort of hormonal freak."

Sam couldn't help flinching at the word 'freak, a sharp pang of remorse and anxiety coursing through him.

"Fuck you, Dean."

Dean tensed, his eyes becoming dangerous.

"Sam…"

His tone contained a clear threat.

"No, Dean. You don't get it. I know you're hurting, and I know you feel responsible… "

At this, Sam saw Dean's fists clench.

"…but I can't watch you kill yourself over it!"

"So help me God, Sam, if you don't shut the fuck up _right now_..."

Dean took a menacing step forward.

Sam ignored him, too angry to care.

"Why are you so eager to leave, Dean? Why the hell doesn't anyone care enough to want to _stay_? You're both so willing to sacrifice yourselves to the fight, to protect _me_, but _I'm_ the one who's going to be left. _Alone_. Unprotected. So fuck you, Dean. And fuck Da-"

He got no further, cut off mid-word by his brother's blinding punch to his cheek and a swift, hard follow-up to his gut. He gasped, the hit searing through to his spine, the new pain in his cheek throbbing over the reawakened ache of his last 'talk' with Dean.

His brother grabbed a fistful of Sam's collar and yanked him upright. His face, teeth bared and eyes deadly cold, was inches from Sam's.

Ice water seemed to fill Sam's throbbing gut. Dean was looking at him the same way he looked at the things they killed - the same way he'd looked as he decapitated that vampire.

"You shut up _now_, Sam, or I will _make _you - understand? If you _ever_ talk about ..him…"

Dean's voice cracked a little and he blinked hard.

"…that way again...I swear..." Dean trailed off, leaving the unspoken threat hanging in the air between them.

Sam nodded numbly, feeling shocky and hollow. Dean let go of his shirt, more roughly than was necessary, and without another glance stalked to the car, leaving Sam alone to wonder, again, how they had gotten this way, and how they could ever hope to fix it.

* * *

Dean parked the Impala in the shadow of the giant paper plant and fished a flashlight and some holy water out of the trunk. Westinghouse Paper Mill had once been the hub of Penoke – now it was a condemned shell, an empty testament to an economy that had died with the plant. 

He had left Sam in the motel parking lot, viciously squashing the remorse and guilt that threatened to spill over and incapacitate him. He had warned his brother, told him to back off. He just needed to clear his head, _kill something_, and then he would apologize, patch things up. Maybe Sam would get the hint, stop pestering him.

Now he just had to find the fucker.

Shouldering the gun, he easily jimmied the padlock on the gate, ignoring the spattering of signs that loudly proclaimed KEEP OUT, PRIVATE PROPERTY.

The yellow police tape was even less of a barrier, and soon he was inside. The building smelled of old chemicals and sawdust – rust, and something sharper and more like… sulfur.

Part of Dean insisted that he should turn back now, get Sam, do some research. Sulfur meant demons, and demons were at least a two man job.

The rest of him thought '_perfect'_.

Following the scent of brimstone, Dean ventured further into the mill.

He moved swiftly, silently, ready to kill.

But when he found the scene of the crime, there was nothing there to bleed for him. It was a mostly empty room, windowless, roped off by police tape. Chalk outline showed where a body had sprawled in the back right hand corner, a marker indicating a dark stain below a jutting piece of rebar.

Stepping into the room, Dean swung the torch over the floor, squinting as something drawn faintly on the cement caught his eye. Angling the flashlight more directly, he could make out a pentagram and carefully drawn set of Sumarian symbols. A few drops of blood were spattered in the center.

"Shit, Gordon, what the hell did you get yourself into?"

A sudden skittering sound above him had Dean swinging light and shotgun towards the sky before he could blink. At first, he saw nothing. Then –

Two eyes gleamed dully in the flashlight's glow. When the shadow moved, Dean could make out the shape of a man, arms and legs disturbingly bent as he clung to the ceiling and twisted his terrible face to peer at the hunter. He snarled, seemingly too-large eyes blinking reptilian lids, and Dean decided to get the hell out of Dodge.

A shotgun full of rock salt wasn't going to do this fucker.

He shot it, just the same.

Then he ran, not pausing to judge the shot's effect.

He was oddly thrilled by the enraged, pain-filled shriek echoing behind him

_Soon,_ he promised silently. _Soon.__

* * *

_

A/N: Chapter one... ta da! 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the kind feedback, guys. :) Sorry for the delay in posting, but my Dad had to have last-minute surgery and I was understandably distracted from fanfic for a few days. But he's fine, and I actually had a few hours to sit down and type this, so here it is!

Also, I've decided to assign a soundtrack to each chapter. The reccomended song for this chapter is "Apology" by OneRepublic. Great tune. I highly recommend downloading it. :)

* * *

Sam's face ached.

The ice pack he had futilely applied did nothing for the deep, throbbing pulse that pounded against his abused cheekbone. Or for the sharper blend of dread and betrayal that boiled in his core.

Dean had hit him – again.

He felt stupid for pushing him, stupid for letting his emotions run away with him. Dean had always said he was too emotional. Maybe he was right. Maybe if he bucked up, got control of himself, Dean would come around. It was a foolish hope – Sam knew, _knew_ in a way he couldn't explain, that Dean was reacting to something far more devastating than Sam's penchant for chick-flick moments.

Dean thought Sam was a freak.

He'd gone so far as to call Sam a freak to his face, and despite having passed it off as lame humor, there had been something hard and sure in Dean's voice. And somehow his mind kept coming back to their encounter with Andy – Dean's confession that he was scared.

Sam couldn't help but think that his older brother was scared of _him_. Scared of what he might do – what he was capable of. Dean had never doubted him before. His support had never been conditional. Whatever Dean wasn't telling him was awful enough to damage that bond and make his brother fear him.

Sam thought maybe he could feel evil creeping through his bones, rotting him from the inside out, and nausea roiled through him.

Feeling panicky, he pushed himself up from his bed and turned on his laptop. He couldn't think about this anymore tonight, couldn't handle the worry and fear twisting his guts because _Dean was out there alone, hunting without him, unprepared,_ and that meant that his brother would rather rush into a hunt alone than to take Sam with him.

Well, Dean could stop him from going, but he couldn't keep him from researching.

Geek Boy was on the case.

* * *

Heart still racing with adrenaline and anger, Dean parked the Impala and cut the engine. The heavy tones of Ozzy's 'Crazy Train' died with the motor, leaving a heavy stillness behind. Sighing, he leaned back against the familiar support of the seat.

He wasn't ready to face Sam again, and he felt there was a good chance that his little brother would be waiting for him in his room. Sam was like a pitbull when he got a hold on something – nothing would dislodge him

And Dean knew he had some serious bitching coming his way. He'd sucker punched his brother – again- and he had a feeling Sam wasn't going to let it go this time as easily as he had before.

Dean wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. The defeated look on Sam's face, his willingness to let his brother use him as a therapeutic punching bag, had been almost worse than the alternative. It had made him _more_ angry, his brother's unwillingness to fight back. Sam was all he had left, and if he wasn't willing to protect himself, then he was making himself vulnerable to attack. Making Dean vulnerable to loss.

It was unacceptable.

Suddenly exhausted, Dean dragged himself from the car and walked quietly to his room. Enough thinking. Enough brooding.

_That's Sam's job,_ his weary mind provided unhelpfully.

Opening the door, he expected to be met with the angry face of his brother. But the room was dark and empty, and somehow that felt more fitting. Heaving a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation, he kicked off his boots and flopped on the single bed.

He'd face Sam tomorrow.

Tonight he couldn't even face himself.

* * *

A steady knocking woke him far too early, and he groaned as he lurched to a sitting position. His head ached and he felt hung over, despite an unfortunately sober evening. Muted sunlight peeked around the edges of the drawn shades.

Stumbling on the shag carpet, Dean shuffled to the door and unlatched it. Squinting against the bright morning light, he took in the slightly rumpled form of his brother.

"Jesus, Sam, I was sleeping," he bitched, rubbing his knuckles into his temple in an attempt to ease the ache there.

"It's ten a.m., Dean."

Shoving a paper bag and _oh, thank God,_ a coffee cup into Dean's hands, Sam stepped into the room. Inhaling the blissful aroma of caffeine, Dean closed the door and sat heavily on the bed, bracing himself for a tongue-lashing and some touchy-feely sentiments.

Instead of the expected onslaught, however, Sam leaned casually against the wall and watched Dean tear into the honey-glazed donut he'd plucked from the bag. He looked as though he hadn't slept.

"What," Dean asked around a mouthful of pastry, "Do I have som'fing on my face?"

Sam ignored the sarcasm.

"Looks like you made it through last night okay. Find anything?"

Dean peered suspiciously at his brother as he washed the donut down with a swig of hot coffee. Why wasn't Sam bitching at him?

"Yeah," he admitted cautiously, "some freaky assed demon was clinging to the ceiling, so I banged a retreat, figured we'd do some research, head back tonight."

Sam's face tightened slightly, but he didn't react otherwise. Dean noted the purpling bruise on his cheek and felt a pang of regret and shame.

"Someone summoned the fucker – there was a ritualistic design on the floor, some Sumerian inscriptions. I can remember most of them – thought maybe you'd be able to do your Geek Boy thing, figure out what we're dealing with."

" I did some digging, too," Sam replied uneasily, and Dean realized his brother was expecting him to be angry. Goddamn it, he was sick of this shit – walking on eggshells around each other.

"And?"

"At first I thought maybe Birch's wife, Celia. She was raped and murdered – brutal, really. Birch came home, found her pinned to the kitchen wall with a chef's knife through the throat. Sounds like the kind of death that would produce a homicidal spirit. But she was killed in their old home, across town. I don't see how she could have ended up in the plant. And it doesn't explain why Gordon and Birch were there, or why Gordon killed Birch."

"Whoa, whoa, hang on," Dean interrupted, "how do you know Gordon killed Birch?"

"The knife, the one that killed Whitney? It was a Sumerian soul blade, used to dispatch unholy beasts and demons back to Hell."

"You think Birch was possessed?"

"I think _Gordon_ thought he was," Sam admitted, shifting restlessly. "Maybe he thought Birch was responsible for his wife's death? But Birch's DNA didn't match the DNA from the rape kit, and if you saw the demon last night, it seems pretty likely that he was wrong."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, thinking regretfully of Gordon. The man had undoubtedly been a lunatic, and when he'd hurt Sam, he'd crossed a line that made him _persona non grata_ to Dean. But still, there was a part of him that could relate to the man.

He would never admit how much that scared him.

"There's more," Sam continued, "Four local high school students disappeared a week ago. Police are claiming that they ran away, but I think there might be a connection."

"Alright," Dean sighed, stretching. "At least we have a starting point. You start looking for information on Sumerian rituals while I shower, then we'll go do some recon. Together."

"Yeah," Sam said in an odd tone, "Sure."

Dean snatched up some clean clothes and headed to the bathroom, but paused at the door.

"Sam," he said without turning around, "About last night…"

"S'okay, Dean."

"Right," Dean said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. He heard the door snick closed after Sam and his shoulders slumped.

It wasn't okay, and it hadn't been for a while. But there was no time for that now – they had a demon to kill.

A fiery bloodlust rushed through him at the thought of the hunt, and it was almost enough to make him forget the hopeless look in Sam's eyes, the terrible feeling of his fists against his brother's body.

Almost.

But not quite.

* * *

A/N: I'm working straight through this week, and with the holidays I'm afraid I won't be able to post until the following week. I'll try! But please don't hold your breath (plus, that tactic only works for three year olds and Dean!). I'm trying to take my time with this fic because I feel like I have a bad habit of rushing through chapters. I tend to put pressure on myself to post when I know people are reading, and sometimes I feel like my work suffers for it. So this time 'round, I'm trying to be more thorough. Thanks for all the kind feedback – you guys rock. :) 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I had an unexpected day off, and was able to bang out another, slightly longer, chapter. I didn't get any response to chapter two, so I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this, but I'm still having fun writing it, so oh, well. :)

Chapter 3 Soundtrack: 'House of the Rising Sun' by Muse

* * *

When Dean emerged from his shower, noticeably more awake and focused, Sam was typing intently on his laptop.

"Find anything?"

His little brother cast him a quick glance before returning his attention to the screen.

"Yeah. Based on what you described, I think I've narrowed it down. Take a look at these, see if anything looks familiar."

Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder, scanning the images before him and biting his lip.

"That one," he said without hesitation, tapping the screen to indicate the correct ritual. "But there were more symbols inside the pentagram."

"Are you sure," Sam asked doubtfully, "'Cause that doesn't really fit with the evidence."

Dean felt a surge of annoyance and resentment bubble up in his chest.

"Yes, I'm sure. I said it was that one, didn't I?"

He couldn't help the biting tone to his voice. It was nearly a reflex by now, after weeks of strained conversation and lashing out. Sam's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond.

"Are you going to tell me what it means, or should I go grab a nap, wait for you to stop pouting?"

"Do you have to be such an ass, Dean?"

"Only when I'm around you, Samantha. Now spill."

Sam glared at him with an odd mix of hurt and anger for a moment longer, then sighed and leaned back.

"It's a summoning ritual with a built in binding spell. I can't tell you which demon it was meant to summon without seeing the additional symbols, but if this is the design you saw in the plant, it should have bound the demon within the circle. It doesn't fit if the demon was independently mobile."

"Then I guess we go back to the plant, check out the rest of the symbols," Dean surmised, straightening and popping the kinks out of his back. "You can do the research thing, I can kick some ass – everyone goes home happy."

Sam stood, grimacing a little at Dean's sarcastic tone.

"We should go soon, before it gets dark again. I don't want to be out there after dark without knowing what we're up against."

Dean scoffed, shooting his brother a 'you're such a sissy' look.

"Fine. Then let's go. Wouldn't want to upset your delicate disposition by taking a risk, now would we?"

Sam frowned at him, his brows drawing together in an offended scowl.

"Excuse me for being hesitant to rush into a potentially deadly situation unprepared, Dean. You may not give a shit if you live or die, but I still have some sense of self-preservation."

Dean clenched his fists involuntarily, forcing himself to breathe calmly.

"Don't, Sam, okay? Just – don't."

Sam seemed to see something in his eyes that hinted at the danger just beneath the surface, because he dropped his gaze and stepped away. Either that, Dean thought sullenly, or he'd realized that the conversation had the potential to end with another physical blow.

His mind clamped down fiercely on the swell of shame that blossomed within him.

_Focus on the hunt. Focus on the hunt._

Snatching his knife from under his pillow, he studiously avoided looking at his brother.

"Coming?"

Without waiting for a response, he left the room.

* * *

Sam swallowed the hard lump of bitterness that seemed to have lodged in his throat and followed his brother toward the entrance of the paper plant. He had a bad feeling about all of this – there were cold fingers of dread trailing down his spine and wrapping around his nerves.

He wondered if the sensation was part of his premonitory abilities, and briefly considered trying to convince Dean that something was amiss.

_Yeah. That'd go well._

Instead, he kept a keen watch and a steady hold on his shotgun while Dean dislodged the already-picked lock and cleared the entrance. Ducking inside, he blinked in an effort to adjust to the dim interior and flipped on his flashlight.

Dean was already moving confidently down the hall, glancing occasionally towards the ceiling. Sam remembered his brother's description of the demon clinging to the rafters and suppressed a shiver.

_Focus,_ he commanded himself, sticking close to Dean as they retraced his steps to the scene of the ritual.

"There," Dean said lowly, gesturing to a door just down the hall. Sam thought he felt a gust of icy air against his ankles, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from calling his brother away from the entrance. Dean already thought he was too delicate – the last thing he needed was more fuel for the fire.

"Looks clear," Dean said, making a sweep of the room and ceiling with his flashlight and shotgun. "But stay on your guard."

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment, and followed Dean into the room. He was hit instantly with the pungent smell of violence and death, a tangy, raw scent of spilt blood and desperation. The air felt thick in his lungs.

"The symbols are in the center of the room," Dean prodded, giving Sam a pointed look that clearly said 'get your ass moving'.

_The quicker I check them out, the quicker we get out of here, _he thought with determination.

The symbols were where Dean had said they would be, faint but clear. Sweeping his flashlight over the floor, Sam retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and activated the built in camera. Tucking the shotgun under his un-casted arm he snapped a succession of photos illuminated by the yellow glow of the maglight, being sure to include all of the design.

He was taking the last photo when a sudden blast of icy air gusted against the back of his neck. Suddenly more than sure that something was _wrong_, Sam's head snapped up and he fumbled to pocket the phone and regain his hold on the gun.

"Dean," he yelled, his tone audibly anxious. His brother had wandered over toward the jutting rebar where Gordon had been impaled, but at Sam's call he turned and brought his weapon to bear.

"What is it?"

"I – I don't know," Sam admitted uneasily. "I just got a really bad feeling – something's about to go hinky. I think we need to leave. _Now._"

Dean cast a cautious look at the ceiling.

"You have the symbols?"

"Yeah. I-"

He was cut off by an abrupt cry and a hiss from behind him, and the air around him seemed to disappear into a vacuum.

"Sam," Dean shouted in warning, his eyes widening as he stared just beyond his brother. Acting on instinct and a lifetime of hunting together, Sam dropped to the floor and rolled away as Dean fired a round of holy water where he had been standing moments before. As he rolled to his feet, gun clutched to his chest, he caught a quick glimpse of Dean's shot connecting with a dark figure. The thing howled, but instead of the expected hiss of burning flesh, it seemed to diffuse momentarily before reforming and continuing to advance.

"What the hell," Dean exclaimed in shock, cocking the shotgun and re-aiming.

"It's not a demon, Dean," Sam sputtered, confused. "It's a spirit."

His voice seemed to catch the spirit's attention, and it snarled at him, moving rapidly out of the shadows. Sam's flashlight beam illuminated a grotesque face, oddly human and disturbingly demonic. Dropping the maglight, he brought the gun up and fired.

The shot went wide without the guidance of light, and the spirit wisped out of sight with a rattling growl. Dean was stalking toward him, fumbling for more shells in his pocket.

"Where the hell did it go?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, scooping up his flashlight and edging toward the door. "But I don't think we should stick around to find out. This isn't at all what we thought it was."

Dean didn't argue, nodding Sam toward the exit as he re-loaded the shotgun.

Sam was about ten feet from the door when something slammed into his right side like a derailed train. Unprepared, the air whooshed forcefully from his lungs and he spun through the air for a brief, agonizing moment. Then he connected solidly with a wall, the impact crashing through his bones and exploding behind his eyes. He distantly felt the second, less forceful collision of his body and the plant floor, his vision graying out momentarily.

Dean was shouting his name, punctuating the call with the thunderous boom of the shotgun.

Sam blinked heavily, fighting to push himself up. His ribs and left hip throbbed where they had connected with the wall, and he could feel a warm trickle of blood winding down from his temple.

_Gun. Where's the gun,_ he thought desperately, casting out his good hand for the weapon. But it had spun away across the floor somewhere out of reach, and he quickly abandoned his search in favor of getting up and getting out.

"Sam," Dean called anxiously, and Sam heard him cock the gun. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he called back, stumbling to his feet and towards the light of his brother's flashlight. "I think so."

"We need to move," Dean ordered, stepping closer to cover him as Sam weaved in the direction of the door. "I got it with rock salt, but I don't think it'll stay gone for long."

Not needing to be told twice, Sam moved as quickly as he could into the hallway, bracing his good hand against the wall as the floor seemed to lurch under him. He blinked, and then Dean's solid shoulder was butting up under his right arm, his big brother's grip strong on his wrist as he dragged Sam down the hall.

In moments, they were banging through the exit. The afternoon sunlight stabbed at Sam's eyes, and he suppressed a groan as his head throbbed in tandem.

"Fucking-A," Dean bit out, his grip tightening around Sam's forearm. "What the fuck was that thing?"

He didn't seem to expect an answer, and Sam didn't bother trying to offer one. When they arrived at the Impala, he slumped gratefully against it and Dean released his hold. He felt a pang of loss at the cessation of contact, realizing with sadness that it had been the only time Dean had touched him in weeks.

"You're bleeding," Dean said grimly, glancing at his temple as he unlocked the passenger side door. "Don't get any on the upholstery."

Sam almost smiled, oddly comforted by the familiar command as he slumped into the car. His eyes slid shut involuntarily as the back of his head met the seat, and he felt Dean press a wad of gauze into his good hand.

"You gonna be okay? Not gonna puke in my car, are ya?"

Sam cracked his eyes open to see Dean crouched outside the door, his expression hinting at a carefully guarded concern. He stared at his brother for a moment, drinking in the much-missed look of brotherly outrage and worry in Dean's eyes.

"Yeah," he answered after a pause. "I'm okay. Can we go back to the hotel, though?"

Dean nodded, apparently satisfied with Sam's response.

"Sure thing, Sam," he said evenly, shutting the door before moving around the car to slide into the driver's seat.

Despite his brother's conciliatory tone, Sam felt slightly bereft.

It had only just occurred to him that, as long as it had been since Dean had touched him, it had been even longer since he had called him 'Sammy'.

And though he would deny it to the grave, that hurt worse than anything.

* * *

A/N: I'm taking some liberties with the canon plot, as Dean has called Sam 'Sammy' several times since IMTOD. Forgive me. :) Feedback is still very much appreciated, even if it's just to let me know you're reading. Next chapter soon, I hope. :) 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I apologize for stating in my last AN that I had recieved no response to chapter two. I didn't realize that the alerts were down, and I rarely check the actual website for reviews, relying instead on email alerts. Oops. :) There were some very kind reviews, and I do appreciate them greatly. Thanks, guys. :) It helped me get the motivation to get this chapter out sooner, and I'm so pleased people are reading and enjoying. Is there any greater thrill in life than feedback? (sighs dramatically) :)

Chapter 4 Soundtrack: 'A Skeleton of Something More' by Sleeping At Last

* * *

Dean sat in the semi-dark of Sam's hotel room, watching his brother sleep. His heart was still pounding with anger and fear, a Technicolor replay of their encounter with the spirit running through his brain. Sam flying through the air, the thud as he connected with the wall, the terrifying moments he lay unmoving and silent. Sam in peril never failed to amp up his protective instincts, no matter how angry he was. Since their dad… well, the level of apprehension was even higher. Terror had flooded him with an alarming speed and strength, and he knew without a doubt that if Sam _had_ been killed, he would have been lost forever in a desperate, killing rage.

But Sam was okay. As okay as either one of them were capable of being, these days. He had steadied his brother into the room, bandaged the small cut on his temple, and urged him to lay down. Sam had been out within moments, leaving Dean to wonder just how long it had been since his brother had slept.

He knew he should be doing something, research, recon, cleaning his weapons. Their approach was going to have to be changed drastically now that they knew they were dealing with a spirit. But he couldn't move from his seat in the corner, couldn't tear his gaze away from the gentle rise and fall of Sam's back where he sprawled loosely on the coverlet.

His brother had lost weight, his hip bones more prominent where they peeked from between the waist of his jeans and his tee, and once again regret swirled with the ever-constant ache of grief in Dean's heart. He wanted to wake Sam up, wanted to see his brother smile like he used to. But he couldn't.

God, but he was barely holding it together these days. He felt shattered inside, as though he were hemorrhaging anguish into an empty void. He felt so god damn _weak_ – a feeling he detested and feared like no other. Dean Winchester had always protected the vulnerable part of him with a tough, sarcastic, exterior. Now, that façade was all that was holding him together, and even that was beginning to fail.

A part of him worried that when it did, the rage and the grief in him would wash away the world like a tidal wave. The Big Bang, reversed. Destruction and emptiness obliterating everything. Including Sam. Especially Sam.

He knew he was hurting his brother, maybe irreparably so. But what else could he do? As much as he wanted to pull Sam closer, to comfort him and protect him like he had when they were children, he knew it was too dangerous. It would be like drawing him into a black hole.

Dean was empty. No comfort to be had -only crushing despair. He was walking down a dark path, and he was afraid of where it led. Afraid of where he was leading Sam.

The more his insides darkened and twisted, the further away he wanted his brother to be. He was a drowning man, and he'd be damned if he pulled Sam down with him.

If Dean had to break his brother's heart to save his soul, then he would. No matter how much it killed him to do it.

* * *

Sam woke to a throbbing head and the muted sound of someone typing. His body ached, but he felt rested. Stifling a moan, he rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows. Dean was slouched at the table, glowering at the screen of his laptop.

"'Bout time you woke up," he grumbled without humor.

_So we're back to this, are we?_

"What time is it?"

Dean glanced toward his cell were it lay on the table.

"Past five. You slept for four hours."

Yawning, Sam stood and stretched, grimacing as the action pulled on his sore ribs.

"What're you doing," he asked cautiously, shuffling over to the table.

"I sent the pictures from the plant to my email account, and I've been comparing them to the ones you found online."

"And?"

"And, it's definitely the same ritual. Thing is, whoever drew the symbols made a mistake."

Dean swiveled the laptop toward Sam and indicated a selected inscription.

"You said there was a built in binding spell, meant to keep whatever was summoned inside the pentagram, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the core symbol meant to bind the demon was improperly drawn. See?"

Dean pulled up the JPEG from the plant, tapping the symbol in question. Impressed despite himself, Sam _hmphed_ and leaned forward.

"Good catch," he praised.

"Yeah, well, even I have my moments, Sam."

Frowning at the bitter tone, Sam straightened.

"I didn't mean-"

"No, of course you didn't. Can we focus, please?"

Literally biting his tongue to keep from responding, Sam nodded.

"The symbol this dumbass drew is also used in binding rituals, but it's used to bind individuals to one another, not to anchor someone to a location."

Sam rocked back on his heels, considering.

"Everything points to this being a demon. The smell of sulfur, the symbols. But instead we run into this freaky spirit. I've never seen a demonic spirit before – never even heard of one. What the does it all mean?"

"If I knew that, Sam, we'd have banished whatever-the-hell it is by now."

Dean stood and snatched a scrap of paper off the table, something scrawled in his hasty handwriting.

"Luckily, I know where we have to go next. Whitney Birch is connected to all of this somehow. We can assume that Gordon was on a hunt, so his presence makes sense. But Birch doesn't fit. I got his address online – time for a little B&E."

"Alright," Sam agreed, moving to grab his coat off the back of the chair.

"Not you, dim wit. I've been hunched over this geek box all afternoon – it's your turn. I still haven't figured out what was summoned. I'm going to Birch's, you're staying here to sort that out."

"Dean-"

"Don't argue with me, Sam. I'm not in the mood."

"No," Sam bit out, nevertheless settling into Dean's vacated seat. "You never are."

"Now you're getting it, little brother," Dean shot back, shrugging into his leather jacket.

Sam's hands fisted on the keyboard, wishing that the word 'brother' didn't sound like such an insult when Dean uttered it.

"Be careful, okay," he ventured.

"Sure," Dean replied, stepping through the door. "Whatever."

* * *

Whitney Birch had lived in a modest apartment over a local feed and supply store, thankfully accessed by a discrete stairwell in the back of the building. Dean had had little difficulty sneaking up the stairs and picking the lock, once again scoffing at ordinary citizens' ideas of security.

Once inside, the door latched behind him, Dean pulled all the shades before switching on the overhead light. The apartment stunk of old food and unwashed flesh, the wan light revealing a disheveled, filthy kitchen. There were no personal artifacts to be seen, just a scant pile of soiled dishes piled in the sink. A fat fly buzzed lazily over a molding pot of uneaten mac and cheese.

"Dude. Gross," he muttered, edging cautiously toward what he assumed to be the bedroom.

It was twice as dirty as the kitchen, trash and clothing scattered over the floor and a bare, stained mattress in the corner. Dean barely noticed the waste, though, distracted by the photos and manically scrawled writing on the walls.

Whitney Birch had obviously lost his fuckin' mind.

Stepping closer to the nearest wall, Dean read over the barely-legible writing. There were snippets of legends, mentions of various psalms, the word 'resurrection?' spelled out in bold, sharp script, underlined and circled. A photo of a woman was tacked over it. Blond and lovely, she was smiling coyly over her shoulder at the camera. Her expression somehow managed to be simultaneously suggestive and innocent, wide green eyes peering straight into the lens.

Pulling the photo from the wall, Dean turned it over in his hands to reveal neat handwriting in stark contrast with the madness around him.

_Celia, Mason Park, 7/8/04_

There was a news clipping under the photo, the tragedy of her brutal death spelled out in black ink.

Birch had obviously been a man bereft, driven by loss to a state of frenzied desperation. Dean felt suddenly sick, standing in the midst of a grieving man's ruined life. It was too familiar, too intimate. He imagined that if someone were to open him up, his insides might look something like this room – chaotic, filthy. Full of ruined potential.

Suddenly frantic to leave, he stuffed the photo of Birch's wife in his jacket and turned to go. As he was stepping over a torn and crumpled paperback entitled 'Crossing the Void – Communication With the Dead', a different sort of book caught his eye, half hidden under the edge of the mattress. It was old, very old, bound in cracked leather, and when he pulled it free he could faintly see writing on the binding. Turning it to the light, he squinted and read, a cold feeling of understanding blossoming in his chest.

_Daemonista_ was branded into the spine, and when he flipped through the pages ancient symbols and illustrations flitted through his line of sight.

At least now they knew who had summoned whatever it was that had been unleashed. And, judging by the theme of the photos and writing on the walls, Dean had a pretty good idea why.

Hopefully Sam had figured out what he'd called so they could destroy it.

This hunt was beginning to get uncomfortably personal.

* * *

A/N: Don't worry, all will be revealed soon. The sadisitc plot bunnies have been 'encouraging' me to post with sharp sticks and hot pokers, and I am but a slave to their demands. :) Thanks to everyone who reviewed - it's trully appreciated, and I regret not having the time to reply individually, but please know how much the feedback means to me (and the bunnies, who would otherwise go hungry as I'm out of carrots)

PS: Has anyone downloaded any of the soundtrack songs and tried them out with the corresponding chapters? I'm curious to know if that's working for folks. :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This one's shorter, not much action, but necessary for the plot. Thanks again to all of those who've reviewed. :) Just in case any of you are up on your demonology. the demon mentioned in this chapter is a 'real' demon in Christian mythology, but I've taken some liberties with its origins ect. I tried to stay as accurate as possible, but hey, that's why they call it 'FICTION'. :) Hopefully no one will be offended by it.

Chapter 5 Soundtrack: 'Laugh, I Nearly Died' by the Rolling Stones (also featured in in the show in Bloody Mary, I believe)

* * *

Dean looked haggard and wrung out when he returned from his recon of Birch's apartment, and Sam couldn't repress a flutter of worry.

"Please tell me you found out what we're dealing with," his brother demanded, slumping on Sam's bed. There was a leather-bound book clutched loosely in his right hand.

"I think I did," Sam answered, glad to be able to give Dean the answer he so obviously wanted. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well, the symbols used are to summon a demon called Teeraal. He has several other names in different cultures, but in Christianity it's Teeraal. He's a lesser Prince of Hell, with eight legions of demons under his command, and he represents the passage from life to death and from death to life."

Dean looked thoughtful, glancing at the book in his hand. Sam resisted the urge to ask him about it, knowing that his brother would tell him only when he was good and ready.

"He's described as 'an awful man, crawling on walls and ceilings', and he can grant the summoner several favors, including information, the destruction of one's enemies, and the return of a deceased's soul to their earthly flesh."

At this, Dean's head shot up and he peered intently at Sam.

"That mean something to you," Sam asked, intruiged.

"Yeah. I think it does."

Standing, Dean pulled a photo from inside his jacket and presented it to Sam. The beautiful blond woman staring up at him looked vaguely familiar, and Sam shot a questioning look at his brother.

"That's Celia Birch. Whitney's apartment, and I use the term loosely, is papered with pictures of her and a lot of useless shit about communicating with the dead."

Glancing at the image with new eyes, Sam felt a familiar pang of loss and regret, thinking of Jessica. Dean pulled the photo from his grasp and set it aside, looking at Sam as though he knew the path his younger brother's thoughts had taken.

"You think he was trying to bring her back," he speculated.

"Yeah, I do," Dean confirmed, dropping the book on the table with a heavy _thunk_. "Most of the crap Birch was trying was useless new-age mumbo-jumbo. But this… this is the real deal. The poor bastard had no idea what he was toying with."

"I guess that explains the ritual, and his inexperience explains the mistake. But it still doesn't account for why we're dealing with a spirit instead of a demon. Teeraal is a corporeal entity, not ephemeral."

Dean sighed in frustration, running his hands through his hair.

"We need more information," Sam prodded.

"No shit, Sherlock. How do you suggest we go about getting it?"

Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully, squinting as his head throbbed.

"It's possible that Gordon wasn't wrong. Maybe Birch _was_ possessed. That symbol, the one he botched, it's used to bind individuals together. Maybe it bound the demon to Birch."

"But Gordon killed Birch, and we still have a demon-spirit thing running around."

"Maybe killing Birch was enough to cast Teeraal out of his body, but not enough to banish him?"

"We need to know what Gordon knew," Dean surmised.

"He probably thought that Birch killed his wife, right? So if you were Gordon, where would you look for evidence?"

"His house – the one Celia was killed in. We need to check it out. Retrace his footsteps."

Suddenly determined, Sam stood.

"It's my turn to do some recon. I'm going."

Dean looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but bit his tongue and nodded.

"I need a shower anyways. That apartment was a friggin' cesspool."

A little surprised that he'd gotten his way so easily, Sam slipped on his sneakers and jacket.

"Okay, then," he said uncomfortably, still waiting for the other show to drop. "So I'll be back soon."

"Bring coffee," was Dean's only response as he headed back to his own room.

* * *

Sam found the house easily, parked across the street, and considered. Someone was home, a minivan parked in the drive in front of the quaint, yellow Tudor. Sam could easily imagine the Birches, puttering in the flower beds, eating dinner, kissing each other good night. All the quiet little moments that made up a life together. He felt a strong sense of pity for Whitney, an understanding of the gaping void left when your greatest hope for happiness and normality was torn away.

Sighing, he dug through the glove box for a fake ID, still shocked that Dean had let him take the Impala. Finally settling on a Federal Agent badge with the name Special Agent Samuel Cosington, he made his way to the front door and rung the bell. A cheery tune chimed from inside the house, and a moment later muted footsteps made their way to the entry.

The door cracked open and a polite but wary looking woman peeked out.

"May I help you?"

"Good evening, Ma'am," Sam said warmly, flashing her a disarming smile and his fake badge. She smiled hesitantly in return.

"I'm Special Agent Cosington, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

At this, the woman perked up, swinging the door fully open.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," she exclaimed in surprise. "When Jerry told me he'd called you, I said he'd wasted his time. Thought he'd been watching too many X-Files re-runs."

Feeling abruptly confused, Sam followed the woman into the house.

"I didn't think the FBI was actually interested in such things as ghosts."

His interest now fully piqued, Sam followed the woman into a warmly lit kitchen. A mousy looking man in his forties stood stirring a pot on the stove, the smell of tomatoes and basil permeating the room.

"Jerry," she exclaimed, "The FBI are here about our ghost!"

The man at the stove's face lit up and he dropped the spoon hastily.

"I'll be damned," he muttered, shaking his head. "Bout a week too late, though."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, bewildered, "I'm not sure what you're referring to…"

"Aren't you here about our ghost," the woman asked, suddenly looking less sure.

"I'm investigating the murder of Whitney Birch – this address was listed as a former residence of his. You may have read about it in the paper?"

"Oh, dear," the woman gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. "We don't really keep up on the news, too depressing… I thought…"

"You mentioned a ghost?"

She flushed slightly, shooting her husband an exasperated look.

"We had a little… ghost problem," he supplied. "Bought the house two months ago. Strange stuff was going on right away. At first it was little incidents – things moving around, tipping over. Then one night, couldn't sleep, came in here to get a snack, and there she was."

"She?"

"Lovely young woman, standing in the middle of the room. Took me a moment to realize you could see right through her. Damn near shit my pants."

"Jerry," his wife hissed in admonishment.

"Well, damn near did, Pru. I shouted, and she just vanished. Happened a few times after that, I thought I should call in the authorities, so I rang you folks."

"Have you seen this… apparition… since?"

"Oh, heavens no," Pru exclaimed, resting a hand on Jerry's arm. "Not since Mr. Franks stopped by. Don't know what he did, but we haven't had a problem since."

"Mr. Franks?"

"Rather abrupt African American fellow, showed up a few days after the local paper ran an article about our experiences. Most folks laughed at us, but Mr. Franks said he believed us. Asked a lot of questions, then took off. Said he'd fix it right up. Haven't seen him since."

Sam felt a sudden, dark certainty in his gut. Pulling out the news clipping of the double homicide, he handed it to Jerry.

"Is this Mr. Franks," he asked, pointing to the composite sketch of Gordon.

"Oh, dear God," Pru gasped in horror. "Yes, yes it is! Oh, that poor kind man!"

Sam resisted the urge to raise an incredulous eyebrow at her description of Gordon.

"Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what I'm trying to determine, Ma'am. You've been a great help. Unless there's anything else you can tell me, I'm afraid I need to be going."

Still looking horrified and shell-shocked, she shook her head.

"Are… are we in danger, Agent," Jerry asked uncertainly.

_All the time,_ Sam thought morosely.

"No," he lied, smiling reassuringly, "you're perfectly safe."

Then he left them there, clutching the news clipping and each other.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm back from the holidays, and back on track with posting (now that the site is letting me post docs again!) A small (belated) correction from chapter one - I reffered to Gordon Walker (from Bloodlust) as "Walter Gordon", who was actually the bad guy from the season five finale of CSI, "Grave Danger". Oops. My bad. :) But you must admit, the names are quite similar. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not... ;) So on to the chapter...

* * *

Dean was lounging on his bed watching Ren and Stimpy when Sam returned, his hands resting on his belly and ankles crossed.

"Dude, this show is screwed up," he announced as Sam slipped into the room. "You find anything useful?"

"You could say that," Sam hedged, feeling tired and irritable. Dean glanced up at his cold tone, scowling a little.

"You gonna share, Nancy Drew? Or do we have to play a little round of twenty questions?"

Kicking off his shoes, Sam flopped into a nearby chair and sighed.

"Dean, can you lay off the sarcasm for a while? I'm really not in the mood to do this right now," he pleaded, trying to roll the kinks out of his neck. His body still ached from its impromptu meeting with the plant wall, his ribs throbbing in time to his heartbeat.

"Depends," Dean drawled with a slightly dangerous tone. "Are you gonna spill and tell me what you found so we can kill this… whatever it is… and get the hell out of here?"

Sighing in resignation, Sam leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.

"The new residents of Birch's old house claim to have been having an issue with a ghost. Sounds like Celia Birch from their description of the spirit," He explained wearily, trying to ignore the fidgety, restless vibe Dean was giving out. It was a clear indicator that his big brother wanted, _needed_, to kill something.

"So do we need to do a good ol' salt 'n burn before we tackle scaly-ceiling dude?"

"No, I don't think so," Sam assured, "Seems Gordon showed up after the local paper ran an article on their haunting. They haven't had any issues since. I think Gordon came here originally for the haunting, then got mixed up with Whitney and his attempts to bring Celia back to life."

"If he showed up at Birch's apartment, saw the same shit I did, he would have figured it out, too," Dean speculated, sitting up straighter.

"It still doesn't explain what we saw at the paper plant," Sam interjected, not liking the eagerness in Dean's eyes.

"Maybe we don't really need to explain it," Dean argued, standing and switching off the TV. "I mean, we know it's a spirit. We weren't prepared for a spirit last time, and it got the jump on us. I say we go back tonight, perform a banishment ritual, finish it."

"Hang on, Dean," Sam objected, standing as well. "Not only were we not prepared for a spirit last time, we weren't prepared for _anything_. You rushed us into a hunt without any information, and _I_ got thrown into a wall for it. I'm sorry, but I don't want to repeat that experience. We're not ready. We _need_ to know what's going on here."

"It's not my fault you let that thing get the better of you, little brother. You may not be prepared, but I'm good to go. Feel free to stay here and feel sorry for yourself. I'm going soon as it's dark."

Sam felt his face flush with anger, and he had to resist the urge to smack his brother upside his thick skull.

"The only thing you're prepared to do is get yourself killed," he shouted, frustration and fear hammering in his veins. "This isn't like you, Dean! Dad taught us better than this."

Dean's face tightened when Sam mentioned their father, and he almost felt bad for stooping to using their dad as an argument. But Dean was being uncharacteristically reckless, and Sam was increasingly afraid that his behavior would end in disaster.

"Don't talk to me about what Dad taught us, Sam. You never wanted to learn any of it anyway, right up to the end."

Dean's voice was like gunmetal, cold and hard. Sam's insides clenched in mingled grief, anger, and regret.

"Don't twist this around on me, Dean. You've got a fucking death wish, and you're not going to stop until something bigger and meaner than you takes you out. I don't know what the hell's happened to us – but you _do_ know something, don't you? Dad told you something, before he died."

Dean's hands fisted at his sides, and Sam saw his chest hitch.

"Leave it alone, Sam," he warned, teeth gritted.

But Sam couldn't.

"What did he tell you, Dean? It was about me, wasn't it? That's why you can't even look me in the eye anymore, why you're pushing me away."

Dean took two quick steps toward him, and Sam couldn't help but flinch a little.

"I'm pushing you away, _Sam_, because you won't fucking _leave me alone_. You're worse than a woman, with all this nagging and bitching and clinging. I can't fucking take it anymore! You just can't stop _picking _and _picking_ until you make me bleed, can you? Well fuck you, little brother. I don't need it. And I don't need you."

Too stunned to respond, Sam stood frozen as Dean turned on his heel, snatched up his keys and jacket, and stormed out. The door slammed forcefully behind him, rattling the tacky picture on the wall.

His heart hammered in his chest.

What the hell had just happened?

_I don't need you._

Feeling as though all the air had rushed out of his lungs, Sam dropped bonelessly back into the chair, head in his hands.

He didn't know what to do anymore. Every time he tried to make things better, he made them worse. Every time he tried to reconnect with his brother, he pushed him further away.

Was Dean right about him? Was _he_ the one creating this rift between them? God, everything was so fucked up. _They_ were so fucked up. And now Dean had run off to do God knew what, alone.

Slumped in the chair, Sam sat unmoving for a good fifteen minutes before he really focused on the paper lying between his feet, discarded there by his brother. The front page story was Birch's murder, a grey-scale photo of the man staring up at him from under the headline.

A strange sense of deja vu came over him, and he picked up the paper to look more closely. There was something about Birch's face, something eerily familiar. The shape of his face, the curve of his mouth…

"Oh, shit," Sam gasped, realization washing over him.

_Birch_ was the spirit he'd seen at the plant. A terribly malformed, demonically twisted version, yes, but Birch all the same. Suddenly everything fell into place with alarming clarity.

Dropping the paper hastily, he fumbled for his phone and hit the speed dial for Dean.

"Pick up, pick up…" he murmured, listening to the phone ring and ring. When Dean's voicemail picked up, he almost threw the cell in frustration.

"Dean, I know what's going on. The spirit, it's _Birch_. He tried to summon Teeraal, but the sigil meant to bind him to the pentagram bound him to Birch instead. Gordon tracked him there and found him like that, possessed, and killed him. But Birch's spirit is still angry, he can't move on, and his spirit is- it's _twisted_ somehow. He died violently, while possessed... Dean… listen, please. I know you're angry, I know you hate me right now, but _please_… just wait for me, okay? I'm on my way. Just, don't go in alone, okay? Birch's spirit killed Gordon. He's powerful. Look -I'm sorry… just, don't do anything stupid, Okay? I'll be right there."

He ended the call, dropping the phone on the table unoticed in his haste.

_You've got a fucking death wish, and you're not going to stop until something bigger and meaner than you takes you out. _

"Oh, God," Sam breathed out loud, "Please don't let him kill himself."

_Please…_

Dean had taken the Impala, but the parking lot was full of easily hotwired vehicles, and Sam made short work of jacking a Chevy pickup.

Desperation made him reckless, and he broke every speed limit between the motel and the plant, the sinking sun mocking his panic

* * *

Dean was pretty sure he was going to leave permanent fingernail marks in the steering wheel, he was gripping it so hard.

"Fuck you, Sam," he growled to the empty passenger seat, the darkening road disappearing rapidly beneath the speeding Impala.

But it wasn't Sam he was angry with, not entirely. He was angry with himself. With their dad. With the whole fucking screwed up, unfair world. He was beginning to crumble, and Sam just wouldn't leave it alone.

His parting words rang in his ears, and already he felt a surge of regret and shame. The worst of it was, he really _did_ need Sam. More than anyone. More than anything. But John's death had been like a catastrophic explosion, one that left an impassable rift between them. They were too raw, too wounded already. All the little things that made up a brotherhood suddenly seemed to irritate and sting, like salt in an open injury.

And somehow, Sam had figured out that their father had spoken to him before his death, had used those freaky perceptive powers of his to discern that the subject of that confession had been him. He'd taken Dean off guard, and Sam's confrontation had left him feeling terrified and unsettled.

So he was driving, running away with no real direction. Figured maybe he'd find a bar, get piss drunk. Forget all about his life for a while and deal with the demon-spirit-thing tomorrow.

Sam was right about that, at least. They weren't prepared.

A muted ringing from his pocket distracted him from his thoughts. Pulling his cell out, he glanced at the LCD screen and saw Sam's number.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me? Did he ever _hear_ what I was saying?"

Thumbing the button on the side of the phone, he silenced the ringer and dropped the phone on the seat. A moment later the phone beeped to signal that a voicemail had been left.

He ignored it.

He'd had enough for one night.

* * *

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the very kind reviews. You guys are totally my inspiration. :)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: As promised, chapter 7! Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed. I'm a total feedback junkie, and I love that you feed my addiction :) There's some violence in this chapter (try to conceal your joy, sickos:). What can I say? I just have to whump. ;)

* * *

By the time Dean found a bar, he wasn't sure he felt like drinking anymore. The twenty minutes in the car searching for an appropriate watering hole had given him ample time to think, and to regret.

His conversation with Sam replayed over and over again in his head, every cruel, thoughtless jibe taunting him with shame. As his temper cooled, he recalled the way Sam had flinched away from him during the argument, and he wanted to vomit. His number one job, _always_, was to protect his brother. It was what he did. And somehow, in only a few weeks, he had gone from protector to abuser. Sam had never been afraid of him before. But then again, Dean had never given him reason to be.

He was angry and frustrated with Sam for pushing him. But in his little brother's own, screwed up way, he was only trying to help. Trying to piece their fractured family back together again.

Parking in the bar's lot, he cut the engine and leaned back, sighing. There was a part of him that really did want to just drink away the entire evening. But the bigger part of him, the big brother part, couldn't let him relax until he made sure Sam was okay. The voicemail waiting on his phone had been niggling at the back of his mind since Sam's call, and something was unsettling him. If Sam had been calling to apologize or argue, he wouldn't have left a message. He would have called repeatedly, or given up.

"Damn it, Sam. Even when you're not here you're a pain in the ass," he mumbled, snatching up the phone and angrily jabbing the voicemail button. He sat impatiently through the automated greeting before his brother's tense voice came on, sounding out of breath and anxious.

_"Dean, I know what's going on. The spirit, it's Birch. He tried to summon Teeraal, but the sigil meant to bind him to the pentagram bound him to Birch instead. Gordon tracked him there and found him like that, possessed, and killed him. But Birch's spirit is still angry, he can't move on, and his spirit is twisted from dying while bound to the demon. Dean… listen, please. I know you're angry, I know you hate me right now, but please… just wait for me, okay? I'm on my way. Just, don't go in alone, okay? I'm sorry… just, don't. I'll be right there."_

Sudden, overwhelming panic rushed through him, and he was peeling out of the parking lot before the message even ended.

_Jesus, Sam, what the hell are you doing?_

His brother was rushing off to save him, despite Dean's earlier claim that he didn't need Sam for anything. His foolish, headstrong, self-sacrificing brother was trying to save him. Again. And he was going to get himself killed doing it.

"Damn it," he swore, striking the steering wheel with enough force to sting his hand. Hastily dialing Sam's cell, he listened with growing apprehension to the unanswered ringing. Sam wasn't picking up.

How long ago had he left the message? Twenty, twenty five minutes? Enough time to get to the plant. Enough time to get himself killed, impaled on a piece of rebar like a bug in a display box.

_No!_

He wasn't going to let that happen. He'd turn back time if he had to, do anything. There was no way in hell or any other dimension that his final words to Sam would be _I __don't need you_.

He couldn't lose his brother, the only thing he had left in this world that meant a damn.

The last few weeks of insults and tense conversations seemed to rush back to him all at once, and the most terrible feeling of remorse and self loathing he'd ever felt washed over him and stole his breath away.

He'd been such a pig-headed, selfish fool.

And now Sam was going to pay the price for it, again.

* * *

The Impala wasn't at the plant when Sam arrived, though he was almost to the door before he realized it. He paused, feeling suddenly uncertain. He had been sure that Dean was headed to the plant to finish the hunt, hadn't even considered any other possibilities. But the beloved car was nowhere to be seen.

If Dean had arrived while it was still light out, he might have parked out of view to avoid detection. Maybe. But what if Dean wasn't here, and he rushed in unprepared? He was alone, and though he was well armed with a shotgun and a healthy supply of rock salt rounds, this thing was unnaturally strong for a spirit.

How ironic would it be, to chastise Dean for having a death wish, only to rush headlong into a deadly situation himself?

On the other hand, if his original assumption had been correct and Dean _was_ inside, and he walked away… it was unthinkable.

His decision made, Sam slipped into the building, gun at ready. He'd make a quick sweep from outside the room, make sure Dean wasn't there, and get the hell out.

"Damn it Dean, why couldn't you just stop being an ass for one minute and answer your phone?"

The hallway was just as dark and musty as the last time, and the fading scent of sulfur sent a shiver down his spine. He tried to repress his growing trepidation as he made his way back to the room with the pentagram, but something was setting the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

"Get a grip, Winchester," he muttered to himself, tightening his hold on the gun. The door to the haunted room loomed up before him, and he took a deep, steadying breath.

"Dean?"

There was no answer, just the eerie echoing of his own questioning voice. Shining the flashlight into the room, he swept the beam over the floor. Nothing so far, but the beam only reached about halfway into the room, leaving the back half in muted shadows.

There was no sign of Brich's spirit, either.

Just as he was ready to accept that his brother had not, in fact, come here, a low moan sounded from the back of the room.

"Dean," he called, his breath catching in his throat. There was a soft rustling, and another moan. Sam aimed the beam towards the back corner where the sound had originated, but couldn't make anything out.

Unconsciously he stepped forward, his heart hammering with the fear that his brother was the one moaning, injured or dying.

As his feet crossed the threshold of the room, an icy chill descended on him and realized his mistake.

He'd been lured in, like a fool. He had to get out, _now_-

But it was too late, and he had only a second to regret his mistake before the smell of ozone permeated the air and something flung him off his feet, deeper into the room.

The air rushed out of his body as he slid over the concrete, the skin on his elbows and hands grating painfully over the rough surface. The flashlight spun out of his grasp, the shotgun jabbing agonizingly into his already-bruised ribs.

Before he could recover enough to move, he was lifted forcefully off the floor and flung like a ragdoll into the nearest wall. His left shoulder connected with a jolting pop, and he felt the joint dislocate. He couldn't help crying out as searing pain and numbness flooded his arm and he fell to the floor, unable to prevent his head from cracking against the concrete. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and the gun fell from his now useless left hand.

Gasping and trying to orient himself, Sam pulled himself unsteadily to his knees and tried to stand.

_Have to get out of here,_ he thought desperately, eyes searching frantically for the way out. The room was bathed in darkness, cut only by the still-rolling beam from his dropped flashlight. Something dark flashed through the beam, a quick gleam of iridescent eyes illuminated as it shot past. Jerking in shock, Sam's knees buckled and he fell awkwardly to the floor again.

There was a pop, and across his room the flashlight went out, plunging him into inky blackness.

_The cell phone_… he realized with abrupt hope. _Call Dean…_

But when he patted his pockets with his right hand, he found only shotgun shells and his wallet. A hazy memory of dropping it on the motel bed surfaced, and he groaned in frustration and despair.

An icy gust blew past and he jerked, struggling to see in the impenetrable darkness around him. A raspy voice whispered in his ear, sending a jolt of terror through him.

"_Give her back to me…_"

Then cold fingers wrapped around his throat, tightening until his vision grayed and unconsciousness roared through his skull like a freight train.

* * *

There was a vaguely familiar looking red truck parked in front of the plant when he arrived, door ajar, and when Dean peered into the interior he saw the ignition wires dangling.

His sneaky brother had hotwired it. Sam _was_ here.

Dean wasted no time, arming himself from the trunk and sprinting to the building. Slamming through the door, he didn't bother with stealth or caution. Sam was inside, alone. If he were in trouble, nothing else mattered. And if he were dead, well… Dean had no reason to worry about his own safety.

"Sam," he shouted, his voice echoing in the dark hallway. There was no answer, and the hair on the back of his arms stood up. His brother was in trouble. He could feel it.

_Please, God, don't let me be too late,_ he pleaded silently, cursing himself for letting the situation get this out of control.

He made it to the door of the correct room without incident, but the lack of noise and commotion were anything but reassuring.

"Sam?"

Bringing his gun up to bear with the flashlight, he peered into the room. He didn't see anything at first, just the police tape and the dark bloodstain under the rebar where Gordon was killed. Then, a faint scuffing sound from his right.

Swinging the light in that direction, Dean's mind exploded in a rage so intense he thought his eyes would melt.

The spirit was crouched over Sam, its grotesque hybrid face twisted in a mingled expression of grief and fury. Its hands were wrapped around his little brother's throat, and Sam was unconscious or worse, slumped bonelessly against the wall.

A cry of denial sticking in his suddenly constricted throat, Dean blasted Birch with rock salt and rushed toward the two forms.

The spirit shrieked in outrage, its torso disintegrating into ephemeral black smoke. Eyes flashing, it wisped backward into the blackness. Sam tilted slowly to the left, his lips tinged blue in the wan light of the torch.

"Sam," Dean called desperately, sweeping the room with the gun even as he knelt and placed a hand on his brother's neck.

Sam jerked and gasped, coughing harshly as oxygen flooded his starved lungs. Dean had never heard a more beautiful sound, and he nearly wept with relief.

"Come on, little brother," he urged, patting Sam's cheek lightly, "You need to wake up. It's time to go."

Sam moaned, and Dean could hear pain in the sound as clearly as if his brother had screamed.

"Sam," he pleaded, turning his gaze away from the room for a moment.

He saw Sam's eyes open blearily in the yellow glow of the flashlight, then widen in alarm as his focus shifted behind Dean.

Realizing his mistake, Dean swung around in time to see two gleaming eyes before he was sent flying through the air.

Then a wall was rushing up to meet him, and everything was swallowed in darkness.

* * *

A/N: Ooh, hoo. I'm evil, leaving you with this cliffhanger! What can I say – I've got a devious side that loves to tease. :) 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Okay, all you eager little H/C pervs, here's the good stuff. :) I realized I forgot to do the soundtrack to the last two chapters, so here's the list:

Chapter 6: Shoot Your Gun – The 22-20's

Chapter 7: Map of the Problematique - Muse

Chapter 8: Running Up That Hill - Placebo

* * *

The first thing Sam was aware of was pain. Enveloping, all-consuming pain. His bodyweight rested on his left shoulder, sending spikes of agony through him with each breath. He moaned, coughing and wheezing as air rushed back into his body. His throat throbbed in time to his pounding heart, the memory of spectral fingers choking him still frighteningly fresh. 

"Sam?"

His brother's voice permeated the fog around him, and he realized with blended shock and relief that Dean had come for him. Mustering all the strength he could, he managed to crack open his eyes.

Dean was crouched over him, staring intently at his face with a look of concern and alarm. Two reptilian eyes flashed behind his left shoulder, and Sam tried to speak, to warn him, but his voice seemed washed away by waves of pain. Then Dean was yanked away, flung through the air, and Sam heard him connect with a wall. There was a muffled grunt and a solid thud, then silence.

"_Dean_…" he managed to wheeze, struggling to sit up. There was no reply, and renewed fear blossomed in his chest. It was so fucking _dark_. Dean's flashlight rolled lazily on the floor several feet away, the beam throwing malformed shadows against the walls.

Managing to get his feet under him, Sam used the wall to rise into a standing position, cradling his left arm protectively against his chest. The world spun for a moment, and he staggered but managed to stay upright.

"Dean," he tried again, his voice a little stronger now. There was an answering moan from his left, and he hurriedly shuffled toward it

"Sam?"

His brother's voice sounded weak and disoriented, but hearing it sent a rush of relief through Sam.

"Dean," he answered, flinging out a seeking hand as he stumbled through the dark, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, think so… you?"

Dean sounded close, and Sam stopped, peering into the dark.

"Been better," he replied, swaying slightly on his feet. "I-"

He got no further, knocked backward by a heavy force. He heard Dean call out to him in alarm, had time to think _this is getting old,_ before the spirit latched on to his left wrist and pulled.

He was pretty sure his arm was about to tear from his body, abused muscles and tendons stretching over the dislocated joint. The air left his lungs and he screamed, teetering on the edge of consciousness as he was lifted upward and the floor fell away from his feet.

* * *

Dean had woken to his brother's questing voice, head throbbing where it rested against the dusty concrete floor. 

_Fuckin' asshole,_ he thought bitterly, once again cursing his apparent knack for getting thrown into things. At least Sam seemed to be awake and relatively mobile. Now if only he could find his gun…

"Dean, you okay?"

"Yeah, think so," he responded gruffly, "you?"

Sam had been in obvious pain before, and Dean hadn't missed the trickle of blood that had coated his little brother's temple.

"Been better," he said tightly, and Dean knew that any response but 'fine' meant Sam was in serious discomfort. "I-"

His brother's voice cut off suddenly, and Dean caught a glimpse of movement in the darkness before him.

"Sam!"

The only response was an agonized scream, and Dean felt his blood run cold. Thinking quickly, he pulled his backup flashlight from a jacket pocket, silently thanking his dad for instilling in him the instinct to always pack an extra.

Switching on the beam, he saw to his utter dismay that Birch's spirit had Sam suspended off the floor by his left arm, the ghastly figure clinging to a nearby wall. Sam's eyes were rolling aimlessly in his head, sweat beading on his face as he panted in agony. He looked wan and weak in the artificial light, and Dean felt a surge of protectiveness.

"Let go of my brother, shithead," he growled, edging towards the dull gleam of Sam's shotgun, mere feet from where he had landed.

Birch hissed, jerking Sam higher into the air. Sam gave a piteous sob of distress, his face twisting in pain. His brother was now a good ten feet off the ground, his feet moving aimlessly and unconsciously in search of solid ground.

Dean had the sudden, sickening idea that Birch meant to haul Sam to the ceiling and drop him, and his unhelpful mind supplied the image of his brother smashed and broken from a fifty foot fall.

_Not on my watch, freak,_ he thought venomously, pouncing on the gun. Turning, he aimed hastily and fired, not giving himself time to doubt.

Birch screamed, and his hold on Sam disintegrated. Not allowing himself to pause, despite Sam's cry as he hit the floor, Dean shot again, and again, emptying the barrel and reloading quickly.

Unnatural silence descended on the room, broken only by his ragged breathing and Sam's quiet moans of pain.

"Sam," he yelled, moving swiftly to his brother. Sam was slumped against the wall, eyes mere slits as he gasped and cradled his left arm to his chest.

"Come on, little brother," Dean urged, crouching but being sure to keep an eye on their surroundings. "You need to get up. We have to get the hell out of here, okay?"

Sam's eyes rolled weakly to meet his gaze, and he looked momentarily confused.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, dude, it's me. Saving your skinny ass again. Now come on, up an' at 'em."

Rather than moving to stand, Sam's eyes began to flutter closed and he heaved a sigh that clearly signaled 'I'm passing out now.'

"No, no, man, don't do that," Dean pleaded. "Come on, Sam."

But Sam was beginning to slide further down the wall, oblivious to his big brother's pleading. There was no way he could get them both out of there _and_ cover their exit, and Dean felt a swell of panic.

"Wake up," he begged, not trying to hide the anxiety in his voice. "_Sammy, please._"

Remarkably, Sam's eyes fluttered open at the nickname, and he seemed to focus somewhat. Dean realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd called Sam _Sammy_, and was stung with another pang of guilt.

_Please, just help me get him out of here in one piece, _he prayed silently, _then I'll make this all up to him, I promise._

"Come on, kiddo, we need to skedaddle," he murmured, gently sliding his free arm under Sam's right shoulder. Despite his care, Sam moaned at the movement.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, his voice breaking. Then he hefted his brother upright, gritting his teeth at the pitiful whimper the movement elicited.

There was a scuffling from deeper in the room, and wasting no time, Dean hauled his brother out of there.

* * *

His shoulder was on fire. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that could be causing this much pain. 

Jerking awake before he'd even realized he'd been unconscious, Sam cried out and tried to pull away from the agony. His right shoulder butted up against the familiar cool of the Impala's window, sending shivers of pain through the rest of his body.

"Sammy," Dean's voice soothed, and a cool hand reached over to press against the nape of his neck. "It's okay. We're going to the hospital. Gonna get you fixed up."

"Dean," he whispered, confused. He'd gone to the plant, to rescue Dean. But his brother was taking care of him. Did that mean he wasn't angry anymore?

"I'm s-sorry," he stuttered, suddenly needing to know Dean wasn't mad at him. "Please…"

Beside him he heard a faint intake of breath, and the hand on his neck tightened.

"It's okay, little brother," Dean quieted, "You've got nothing to apologize for, okay? It's me. I'm the one who should be apologizing, not you."

Rolling his head awkwardly to the left, Sam struggled to see Dean's face, to gauge his sincerity. The glow of passing headlights illuminated his brother's countanance, his crushed, remorseful expression.

"We're okay?"

Dean must have heard the desperate need for reassurance in Sam's voice, because he slowed down enough to turn and look his brother in the eye.

"We're okay, Sammy. We're gonna be okay."

Satisfied with that response, Sam sighed, nodded, and then fell into the waiting arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

A/N: Not too many chapters left. More brotherly bonding in the next installment, I promise. :) 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: A thousand apologies for the inexcusable delay in posting! (grovels for forgiveness) I've been out-of-control busy this week, trying to prepare for having surgery on Monday on both my knees, and I've been a little distracted. :( Despite the unpleasant things my surgeon has planned for my poor legs (there will be drilling of holes in bone – OMFG!), there _is_ an upside! Two months off my feet means A LOT of time to sit around and write, so I'll most likely finish this story soon and move on to another. Plus finally finish my House, MD fic, which I've had terrible writer's block on for months (sorry to those who're reading!) Okay – enough apologizing – onto the chapter!

Chapter Soundtrack: "Forever and Ever, Amen" by 8mm

* * *

Despite feeling wrung out and exhausted, Dean couldn't sleep.

He was perched anxiously on the edge of Sam's motel bed, watching his little brother sleep and trying uselessly to fight back the overwhelming shame he felt.

Sam looked pale and washed out, as though he might fade into the surrounding white of the sheets, and Dean kept a hand resting gently on his brother's forearm to reassure himself that Sam wouldn't actually disappear.

They'd gone to the ER hours before, where a suspicious doctor had _tsked_ over the damage to Sam's shoulder and asked pointed questions. Sam had sprawled in a daze on the gurney, his confused and unfocussed eyes drifting between the doctor and his irate brother. Dean had fed the MD a story about his brother falling off his motorcycle, then demanded that the man focus more on _treating_ Sam than writing his life story.

There had been some colorful language involved, and Dean was pretty sure he had called the doctor's parentage into question more than once. Nevertheless, it had gotten the job done with no more prying inquires, and he hadn't really cared about anything else just then.

His brother's less-than perfect physical state had had him slightly distracted, to say the least.

It turned out that Sam had not only dislocated his shoulder, but had also sustained a shoulder separation, three bruised ribs, a concussion, and multiple abrasions and contusions. Dean had felt a sting of guilt with every painful diagnosis, and had thanked God and modern medicine that Sam was sedated for the duration of his unpleasant treatment.

Dean was sure the grusome _pop_ of Sam's shoulder being pulled back into place would haunt his dreams for weeks.

The doctor had wanted to keep Sam overnight for observation, but Dean had talked him into checking his brother out early with an essentially truthful statement about no insurance and limited financial funds.

Amazing, the way money dictated health care these days.

They'd be _really_ pissed when the credit card came back as fraudulent he'd thought vindicitvely as he'd driven Sam back to the motel. His brother had been silent and disturbingly still for the ride, head lolling gently with the sway of the Impala.

His brother had been difficult to maneuver into the room, left arm strapped securely to his torso and system full of drugs. He'd never truly woken up, despite several jolts and near-collapses; just grunted and staggered with his brother's support into the room, collapsing bonelessly onto the bed. Dean had left breifly to grab his things from the other room, knowing he wouldn'y be sleeping there tonight.

Sammy needed him close.

_He_ **always **_needs you close, dumbass..._

Dean had been sitting there for hours now, heart full of remorse as he stared at Sam's battered form.

How could he have let things get this bad? God, he missed Sammy. Missed the easy banter, the unspoken communication of brotherhood.

Now, things were just… unspoken. Distant and cold.

And it was his own damn fault.

Sam had never stopped reaching out to him, annoying and grating as it had been. Dean had shut _him_ out. He'd let his emotional shortcomings get so out of hand that they'd literally threatened Sam's life.

Dad would've been pissed.

A familiar wash of grief and longing mingled with the newer feelings of regret and shame. His family was falling apart, disappearing one by one like a line of dominos, and he was fucking terrified. He lived in a world of danger and questionable ethics, subterfuge and duplicity. Dad and Sammy, they were what grounded him and gave him direction. They kept him from going too deeply into the darkness. They pulled him back from the edge. But now...

Dad had been taken from him.

He'd _let go_ of Sam.

And he had no idea how to find his way back.

As though sensing his turmoil, Sam moaned and shifted on the bed, his head rolling lazily toward Dean.

Dean leaned forward, squeezing his brother's arm gently. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes blinked open glassily, and seemed to peer at Dean without really seeing him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, geek boy, it's me. Can you sit up? It's time for you to hit the painkillers again."

Sam's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but he struggled upright with Dean's steadying hands. He gasped in surprised discomfort as he leaned against the headboard, hand drifting to his injured shoulder. Hazy eyes slid to Dean, questioning.

"You remember the plant? Birch?"

Sam nodded jerkily.

"You got smacked around again. Birch decided to play a one-sided game of ping-pong with your ass. Separated and dislocated shoulder. But don't worry that shaggy head of yours – we've got the good shit here."

Emphasizing his point, Dean rattled the prescription bottle of painkillers before twisting off the top and tapping two into his palm. Sam hadn't responded, watching Dean with a befuddled expression.

Dean was pretty sure his brother was still significantly dosed from the injection he'd gotten in the ER, but the doc had said to give two pills after four hours, and he wasn't about to let the medication wear off enough for Sam to feel his injuries.

"Over the lips, past the gums, look out tummy, here it comes," he chanted, pressing a glass of cool water into Sam's good hand. His brother squinted at him in confusion.

Then again, it must have been confusing - this sudden shift from verbal abuse and gut punches to the chanting of a rhyme oft used to coax Sam into taking pills as a child.

His brother swallowed the pills regardless, his unsteady hand sloshing water over his chin. Dean swiped at the dampness with the edge of the bed sheet, letting his hand cup Sam's cheek for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Sam blurted suddenly.

Dean's gut clenched. "It's okay, Sammy. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yet," Sam choked out, lurching forward, his face a childish mask of despair.

"What?"

Sam grasped at Dean's sleeve, his head seeming to wobble on his neck for a moment. Jesus, the kid was _zonked_.

Maybe one pill would have been enough...

"I haven't done anythin' wrong _yet_," Sam slurred. "But I will. Like all th'others… And then you'll hafta kill me, 'cause 'm a freak. And you won't have anyone to look after you."

Dean felt like someone had frozen the air in his lungs. "Sam, I'd _never_ kill you, understand? _Never_. I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you."

"If it's supernatural, we kill it. End of story. Tha's our job," Sam proclaimed unhappily. "You said so."

He had, Dean realized with a sinking sensation. The conversation he'd had with Sam months ago replayed itself silently.

_"No, Dean - that is_ not _our job! Our job is hunting evil. And if these things aren't killing people, they're not evil!"_

_"Of course they're killing people, that's what they do! They're all the same, Sam. They're not human, okay? We have to exterminate every last one of 'em."_

"_I'm_ supernatural," Sam whispered, blinking owlishly at him. "_Visions _are supernatural, Dean. I'm just like 'em, and tha's why you won't look at me anymore."

Suddenly, the look of horror and sadness on Sam's face as Dean had decapitated that vampire took on a whole other meaning.

"_Sammy,_" Dean breathed.

He felt like the worst brother to ever disgrace the role.

"You listen to me," he said sternly, gripping Sam's bicep to steady him. "I'm a stupid, pigheaded asshole. I talk a lot of shit, Sam. What I said… I didn't mean it. I was angry and hurt – I _am_ angry and hurt, but I didn't mean it like that Sam. Never you. _Never._ And I didn't kill Lenoreafter all that, now did I?"

Sam looked at him dubiously. "No…"

"Sam, _I'm sorry_. I'm so sorry. I've been an asshole lately."

"Yes," Sam said solemnly, nodding.

Dean chuckled, patting Sam softly on the nape of his neck.

"You're not supposed to _agree_ with me, little brother," Dean complained, smiling at him.

Sam smiled back sleepily, and he looked so relieved and so hungry for Dean's attention that Dean nearly cried.

"…tired," Sam mumbled, his eyelids drooping lower with each heavy blink.

"I bet," Dean said sympathetically, easing him back to the mattress. "Get some sleep while you've still got the high grade hospital shit in your veins."

Sam was already half asleep, his face relaxing and the lines of pain around his eyes easing. Despite the empty bed in the next room, Dean stretched out next to Sam, kicking off his boots and shifting to get comfortable as he grasped the knife under his pillow.

They- _he_- still needed to finish off Birch.

But that could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, Dean wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

A/N: I hope to update again this week, but I go in for my surgery Monday and I'll most likely be doped up on the "high grade hospital shit" Dean mentioned moments ago. So please be patient with me. :) 


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